Neither mother nor daughter slept a great deal during the night of
Warwick's first visit. Mis' Molly anointed her sacrifice with tears and
cried herself to sleep. Rena's emotions were more conflicting; she was
sorry to leave her mother, but glad to go with her brother. The mere
journey she was about to make was a great event for the two women to
contemplate, to say nothing of the golden vision that lay beyond, for
neither of them had ever been out of the town or its vicinity.
The next day was devoted to preparations for the journey. Rena's
slender wardrobe was made ready and packed in a large valise. Towards
sunset, Mis' Molly took off her apron, put on her slat-bonnet,--she was
ever the pink of neatness,--picked her way across the street, which was
muddy from a rain during the day, traversed the foot-bridge that
spanned the ditch in front of the cooper shop, and spoke first to the
elder of the two men working there.
"Good-evenin', Peter."
"Good-evenin', ma'm," responded the man briefly, and not relaxing at
all the energy with which he was trimming a barrel-stave.
Mis' Molly then accosted the younger workman, a dark-brown young man,
small in stature, but with a well-shaped head, an expressive forehead,
and features indicative of kindness, intelligence, humor, and
imagination. "Frank," she asked, "can I git you to do somethin' fer me
soon in the mo'nin'?"
"Yas 'm, I reckon so," replied the young man, resting his hatchet on
the chopping-block. "W'at is it, Mis' Molly?"
"My daughter 's goin' away on the boat, an' I 'lowed you would n' min'
totin' her kyarpet-bag down to the w'arf, onless you'd ruther haul it
down on yo'r kyart. It ain't very heavy. Of co'se I'll pay you fer
yo'r trouble."
"Thank y', ma'm," he replied. He knew that she would not pay him, for
the simple reason that he would not accept pay for such a service. "Is
she gwine fur?" he asked, with a sorrowful look, which he could not
entirely disguise.
"As fur as Wilmin'ton an' beyon'. She'll be visitin' her brother John,
who lives in--another State, an' wants her to come an' see him."
"Yas 'm, I'll come. I won' need de kyart--I'll tote de bag. 'Bout
w'at time shill I come over?"
"Well, 'long 'bout seven o'clock or half pas'. She's goin' on the Old
North State, an' it leaves at eight."
Frank stood looking after Mis' Molly as she picked her way across the
street, until he was recalled to his duty by a sharp word from his
father.
"'Ten' ter yo' wuk, boy, 'ten' ter yo' wuk. You 're wastin' yo'
time--wastin' yo' time!"
Yes, he was wasting his time. The beautiful young girl across the
street could never be anything to him. But he had saved her life once,
and had dreamed that he might render her again some signal service that
might win her friendship, and convince her of his humble devotion. For
Frank was not proud. A smile, which Peter would have regarded as
condescending to a free man, who, since the war, was as good as anybody
else; a kind word, which Peter would have considered offensively
patronizing; a piece of Mis' Molly's famous potato pone from Rena's
hands,--a bone to a dog, Peter called it once;--were ample rewards for
the thousand and one small services Frank had rendered the two women
who lived in the house behind the cedars.
Frank went over in the morning a little ahead of the appointed time,
and waited on the back piazza until his services were required.
"You ain't gwine ter be gone long, is you, Miss Rena?" he inquired,
when Rena came out dressed for the journey in her best frock, with
broad white collar and cuffs.
Rena did not know. She had been asking herself the same question. All
sorts of vague dreams had floated through her mind during the last few
hours, as to what the future might bring forth. But she detected the
anxious note in Frank's voice, and had no wish to give this faithful
friend of the family unnecessary pain.
"Oh, no, Frank, I reckon not. I'm supposed to be just going on a short
visit. My brother has lost his wife, and wishes me to come and stay
with him awhile, and look after his little boy."
"I'm feared you'll lack it better dere, Miss Rena," replied Frank
sorrowfully, dropping his mask of unconcern, "an' den you won't come
back, an' none er yo' frien's won't never see you no mo'."
"You don't think, Frank," asked Rena severely, "that I would leave my
mother and my home and all my friends, and NEVER come back again?"
"Why, no 'ndeed," interposed Mis' Molly wistfully, as she hovered
around her daughter, giving her hair or her gown a touch here and
there; "she'll be so homesick in a month that she'll be willin' to walk
home."
"You would n' never hafter do dat, Miss Rena," returned Frank, with a
disconsolate smile. "Ef you ever wanter come home, an' can't git back
no other way, jes' let ME know, an' I'll take my mule an' my kyart an'
fetch you back, ef it's from de een' er de worl'."
"Thank you, Frank, I believe you would," said the girl kindly. "You're
a true friend, Frank, and I'll not forget you while I'm gone."
The idea of her beautiful daughter riding home from the end of the
world with Frank, in a cart, behind a one-eyed mule, struck Mis' Molly
as the height of the ridiculous--she was in a state of excitement where
tears or laughter would have come with equal ease--and she turned away
to hide her merriment. Her daughter was going to live in a fine house,
and marry a rich man, and ride in her carriage. Of course a negro
would drive the carriage, but that was different from riding with one
in a cart.
When it was time to go, Mis' Molly and Rena set out on foot for the
river, which was only a short distance away. Frank followed with the
valise. There was no gathering of friends to see Rena off, as might
have been the case under different circumstances. Her departure had
some of the characteristics of a secret flight; it was as important
that her destination should not be known, as it had been that her
brother should conceal his presence in the town.
Mis' Molly and Rena remained on the bank until the steamer announced,
with a raucous whistle, its readiness to depart. Warwick was seen for
a moment on the upper deck, from which he greeted them with a smile and
a slight nod. He had bidden his mother an affectionate farewell the
evening before. Rena gave her hand to Frank.
"Good-by, Frank," she said, with a kind smile; "I hope you and mamma
will be good friends while I'm gone."
The whistle blew a second warning blast, and the deck hands prepared to
draw in the gang-plank. Rena flew into her mother's arms, and then,
breaking away, hurried on board and retired to her state-room, from
which she did not emerge during the journey. The window-blinds were
closed, darkening the room, and the stewardess who came to ask if she
should bring her some dinner could not see her face distinctly, but
perceived enough to make her surmise that the young lady had been
weeping.
"Po' chile," murmured the sympathetic colored woman, "I reckon some er
her folks is dead, er her sweetheart 's gone back on her, er e'se she's
had some kin' er bad luck er 'nuther. W'ite folks has deir troubles
jes' ez well ez black folks, an' sometimes feels 'em mo', 'cause dey
ain't ez use' ter 'em."
Mis' Molly went back in sadness to the lonely house behind the cedars,
henceforth to be peopled for her with only the memory of those she had
loved. She had paid with her heart's blood another installment on the
Shylock's bond exacted by society for her own happiness of the past and
her children's prospects for the future.
The journey down the sluggish river to the seaboard in the
flat-bottomed, stern-wheel steamer lasted all day and most of the
night. During the first half-day, the boat grounded now and then upon
a sand-bank, and the half-naked negro deck-hands toiled with ropes and
poles to release it. Several times before Rena fell asleep that night,
the steamer would tie up at a landing, and by the light of huge pine
torches she watched the boat hands send the yellow turpentine barrels
down the steep bank in a long string, or pass cord-wood on board from
hand to hand. The excited negroes, their white teeth and eyeballs
glistening in the surrounding darkness to which their faces formed no
relief; the white officers in brown linen, shouting, swearing, and
gesticulating; the yellow, flickering torchlight over all,--made up a
scene of which the weird interest would have appealed to a more blase
traveler than this girl upon her first journey.
During the day, Warwick had taken his meals in the dining-room, with
the captain and the other cabin passengers. It was learned that he was
a South Carolina lawyer, and not a carpet-bagger. Such credentials were
unimpeachable, and the passengers found him a very agreeable traveling
companion. Apparently sound on the subject of negroes, Yankees, and
the righteousness of the lost cause, he yet discussed these themes in a
lofty and impersonal manner that gave his words greater weight than if
he had seemed warped by a personal grievance. His attitude, in fact,
piqued the curiosity of one or two of the passengers.
"Did your people lose any niggers?" asked one of them.
"My father owned a hundred," he replied grandly.
Their respect for his views was doubled. It is easy to moralize about
the misfortunes of others, and to find good in the evil that they
suffer;--only a true philosopher could speak thus lightly of his own
losses.
When the steamer tied up at the wharf at Wilmington, in the early
morning, the young lawyer and a veiled lady passenger drove in the same
carriage to a hotel. After they had breakfasted in a private room,
Warwick explained to his sister the plan he had formed for her future.
Henceforth she must be known as Miss Warwick, dropping the old name
with the old life. He would place her for a year in a boarding-school
at Charleston, after which she would take her place as the mistress of
his house. Having imparted this information, he took his sister for a
drive through the town. There for the first time Rena saw great ships,
which, her brother told her, sailed across the mighty ocean to distant
lands, whose flags he pointed out drooping lazily at the mast-heads.
The business portion of the town had "an ancient and fishlike smell,"
and most of the trade seemed to be in cotton and naval stores and
products of the sea. The wharves were piled high with cotton bales,
and there were acres of barrels of resin and pitch and tar and spirits
of turpentine. The market, a long, low, wooden structure, in the middle
of the principal street, was filled with a mass of people of all
shades, from blue-black to Saxon blonde, gabbling and gesticulating
over piles of oysters and clams and freshly caught fish of varied hue.
By ten o'clock the sun was beating down so fiercely that the glitter of
the white, sandy streets dazzled and pained the eyes unaccustomed to
it, and Rena was glad to be driven back to the hotel. The travelers
left together on an early afternoon train.
Thus for the time being was severed the last tie that bound Rena to her
narrow past, and for some time to come the places and the people who
had known her once were to know her no more.
Some few weeks later, Mis' Molly called upon old Judge Straight with
reference to the taxes on her property.
"Your son came in to see me the other day," he remarked. "He seems to
have got along."
"Oh, yes, judge, he's done fine, John has; an' he's took his sister
away with him."
"Ah!" exclaimed the judge. Then after a pause he added, "I hope she
may do as well."
"Thank you, sir," she said, with a curtsy, as she rose to go. "We've
always knowed that you were our friend and wished us well."
The judge looked after her as she walked away. Her bearing had a touch
of timidity, a shade of affectation, and yet a certain pathetic dignity.
"It is a pity," he murmured, with a sigh, "that men cannot select their
mothers. My young friend John has builded, whether wisely or not, very
well; but he has come back into the old life and carried away a part of
it, and I fear that this addition will weaken the structure."
V